


Dei Gratia Regina

by NosferatuNightingale



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: Consensual Kink, Death, Drama, F/F, F/M, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I got restless, Implied Sexual Content, Jude has some anger issues y'all, Mild S&M, Murder, Mythology References, November 19, Queen of Nothing (alt), Royalty, Sad, Shameless Smut, You can't spell dysfunctional without fun, dramaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, jk there's definitely gonna be sex in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-01-04 07:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21193526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NosferatuNightingale/pseuds/NosferatuNightingale
Summary: “I don’t understand”, I say numbly. “What’s happening to me?”She smiled. “You and Cardan are intertwined. Your destiny is his. If he is the land, with the power to grow and create, you are destruction, the fire. Magic requires balance. You can destroy him, but ultimately he will rebuild. He will rebuild and you will burn. You are as much Faerie as he has become. The land will die without you, and so will he."[An alternate telling of the events post-TWK/retake of QoN.]





	1. Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for checking this story out! It's a work in progress I started shortly before the release of QoN and hopefully will be done before November 2020's follow-up Cardan novel! 
> 
> As of May 2020, I'm currently needing some beta-reading help! If you're interested, shoot me a message! I'm more than happy to return the favor as well!

_It’s happening again._

It’s the strangest thing to dream while knowing you’re dreaming, but even stranger still when it turns out not to be a dream at all.

I was sleepwalking again. I close my eyes to try and achieve some semblance of rest and I wake up on the same faerie knoll a mile up and away from the apartment I’ve been calling home for the last several months, awash in a sea of wildflowers and grass swaying at knee height, the moon a pearlescent sphere above my head and the city a river of neon below me.

It’s a windy evening but I’m thankful for the breeze; The heat of summer is more intense in the human world and even though I’m only dressed in a thrifted antique nightgown, I still feel as if I have more layers on than I actually do. The grass underfoot cracks and stabs me as I circle around, wondering if this could somehow actually be one of Oak’s newest and increasingly elaborate pranks.

I had already woken up twice in as many months with hair in complex braids worthy of a Renaissance faire and once with a tooth missing. His sadness from his missing Faerie and his mother was starting to be expressed in mischief at home and an obsession with Lego kits Vivi brings him weekly. We don’t let him do magic very often and I often wonder if it somehow leaks out of him like an overfilled cup of water. But no; it’s one thing to go from simple magic like enchanting noodles to slither like worms and another thing to lead a fully grown human adult away from their bed, especially those who grew up sprinkling saltpeter on their windowsills to deter wandering footsteps.

No, try as I may to deny it, I’m here because my own feet carried me and I know exactly why. The answer is standing only a few yards away, glowing in the starlight, dark hair swirling around his face. I am as pulled to him as the tides to the moon, a symbiotic dance of coetaneous forces where one cannot go without the other. He looks even more majestic than when I last saw him, almost ethereal. I would have no problem believing the being in front of me was a faerie king from another world if I didn’t know better, despite the fact he was dressed like something out of an Armani ad. I could never imagine him donning human clothes, but now I somehow think that they suit him better than the richly embroidered doublets and capes he’s usually attired in.

His hair is longer than when I last laid eyes upon him, and somehow, he seems taller. Despite the heat lingering in the air, I shudder, as usual completely unable to contain the sensation that my heart has suddenly been drowned in a bath of ice. My fists are balled at my sides, nails digging crescent shaped marks into the flesh of my palms. I hate him for abandoning me here and I hate that while only two months have passed on Earth, I feel like I’ve aged years compared to the unworldly and everlasting beauty that he embodies.

I hide my fists under my arms, trying to appear nonchalant when all I want to do is press myself against him. I can’t deny it. I crave him like an addiction. I feel unbalanced and incomplete without him, as if disconnected from vital part of myself.

We stare at each other unblinkingly. _You despise him_, I think feebly. I try to summon forth rage from within me as if calling out to an old friend but all I find is a stranger: remorse. Scenes from the past flash before me on the horizon, a demented movie playing out in real life. The sight of him on the floor of Balekin’s study flashes on the screen and I gaze on dread as I rewatch him curled up helplessly into a ball while a glassy-eyed servant beats him brutally with a strip of leather. I see myself wincing with a hand closed over my mouth in obvious anguish, lurking in the shadows, dressed in servants rags. I remember and relive falling into a cloud of pillows, our limbs tangled together, and my cheeks redden as I try and ignore my own foolish fumbling, focusing instead on his practiced movements. My head is turned up in bliss as he buries his face into my neck, murmuring ministrations of desire. The scene turns and I observe his mother turn her back on him and I feel a stabbing pain in my chest as he mercilessly beats another child to win her favor. I see him for the first time cry emit a pitiful wail as a large black cat with soft green eyes walks away from him, a group of small kits behind her. Another mother abandoning him for a different life. Then me again, being hauled away for the murder of his brother.

This man has robbed me of everything, _everything_. Now, he’s even stolen my ability to hate him and at that thought, I fall to my knees at his feet. I let myself weep because there’s nothing left to stop me.

I am defeated.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He is steadfast in his gaze, his expression a mask that betrays nothing beneath it. He’s close enough that I can smell him, a peculiar bouquet of evening primrose and tobacco ash. His eyes are cold lumps of obsidian. There is an audible gust of wind and suddenly, he smiles but there is no warmth in it. Yet, he steps forward and kneels down to take my face between his hands and at first, his kiss is a soothing balm of forgiveness, a lullaby singing of peace and better days.

But soon I realize my lips have gone numb.

_Someone close to you has already betrayed you_ _._

I open my mouth to ask him what he’s done but the only thing that emerges is a rivulet of vermillion and a single embroidery needle. And then another, and another. I cup my palm under my chin in pure horror as a wave of pain and nausea rush over me, retching as clumps of coagulated blood and bits of metal tumble out from between my lips in various shapes and sizes. My throat feels eviscerated and I can’t even concentrate on his face anymore for the blurring of my vision.

“If it’s a tale you wish to weave my little spider, let me help you compose.” He says coldly, watching me as he stands back up. I try to grasp a longer pin between my fingers, thinking maybe if I gather my strength, I can at least attempt to scratch his perfect face so he has to live with the reminder of my death every time he looks in a mirror, but my fingers are too wet and slippery, my grip too weak.

I hear him laughing from far away, and then I hear an echo as someone joins him. I look up and can barely make out her form, but I know it’s Taryn, arm in arm with her husband who is in turn flocked by my father.

Madoc has crouched next to me and I feel his hand stroke the back of my hair. He’s holding his beloved cap, crusted with centuries of dried blood, which he places underneath the stream of sanguineous fluid gushing from my mouth at an alarming rate. I’m having a hard time fighting unconsciousness despite the fact there are no more needles to expectorate. I can’t swallow so the secretions flow steadily onto the cap, moistening it afresh.

I hear Taryn in my own voice, reciting a familiar nursery rhyme from our childhood. It’s the legend about Arachne, a mortal from days long past who stole the intricate and resplendent weavings of an innocent boobach named Aurelia, famous for her ability to weave delicate silk tougher than crystal. She lied to the creature, promising her a sacred cow whose cream flowed freely and never ran dry. When Arachne stole the weavings, she lied as mortals do, including stealing credit for Aurelia’s work. Aurelia was killed and eaten by the queen for allowing such a precious gift into the hands of humanity, but redemption came in the form of a powerful enchantress who resurrected her into the form of a spider, where she would weave for her own survival for all eternity. It’s one of the few times that mortal legend and fairytales intersect, but as time goes on, many forget who engineered the story first.

In Faerieland, it’s passed down as the song of Arachne the Liar.

My sister’s song finishes and Locke plants an appreciative kiss on her forehead, an arm around her shoulder. Cardan, my husband, is the last thing I see as my vision fades to black.

“Jude Duarte,” He proclaims, “disgraced Queen of Nothing, you are hereby sentenced to death not by my hand but by your own. For every lie that has ever passed your lips and every life you have ended shall stitch word of its legacy inside you.”

…… X ………

When I wake, I remember nothing, the smell of pancakes hanging in the air.


	2. Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~*~*  
Thank you so much for reading! If you have a moment and don't mind, I'd love for you to drop me a comment for constructive criticism or just what your general thoughts are! I'm an oldie in the fanfic community but I've been out of the game for awhile. 
> 
> I originally planned to make a short one-shot about these two, especially because we're so close to being able to read the rest of their story straight from the source, but I kept having ideas SOOOooOOOooo I guess I'm gonna keep going. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks again. Enjoy! ~*~*

* * *

My mind is a roaring cacophony of oxymorons.

  
_I hate him._

_  
_I actually think I might love him.

  
_I’d do anything for the chance to sink my sword into his belly._

_  
_I would rather die myself.

  
_I want to go home._

...I am home.

It’s like this almost every single night, no matter what pharmaceuticals human, magical or otherwise I try to poison my brain with. Regardless of drug or drink, I wake up at almost exactly the same time, drenched in sweat, breathless and without memory of whatever vision orchestrated what I can only guess was a horrible nightmare.

I’m tired of falling asleep with dreams of making love to a man I want to murder and decapitate when I wake up, like some kind of especially depraved succubus. I just wish I could make my heart fall into the same camp as my my mind.

_"That’s easy._ _Your heart has no place on the battlefield,"_ Madoc whispers to the memory of an eleven year old me, an arrow drawn and pointed at the innocent face of a rabbit I had kept from him as a pet.

Taryn and Vivi brought him to me one night as a gift after a particularly hard week at school, which I barely remember anymore. I’d fed him scraps from my plate in secret including bits of gingertooth to see if it would change his fur like it does to the hair colour of the Folk (it didn’t). I was delighted when he’d managed to double his size in a month. He went from sleeping in the crook of my knees to a tidy furry ball at my feet until he got curious one day at when we were at school and ate through a collection of Madoc’s prized tomes on ancient battles, part of Oak’s crib and had to start to nibble on one of his horns before being caught by Oriana.

"_He was a creature out of a foreign land_," Madoc had explained, "_and if he’s here long enough he’ll become a_ fachan, _a truly terrible beast. Your sisters could not have known, but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. One of the most important lessons you’re ever going to learn as a warrior is how to point your weapon at someone you think you know, or you think you care about._" I bit my lip but didn’t let myself cry as I loosened the arrow unwavering, aiming between its eyes and striking true.

We ate its heart stuffed with acorns for supper later that evening, and I vomited in the privacy of my own room and retched until there was nothing left in my stomach.

The clock reads 3 am but as usual, I am wide awake. Another night, another pseudo-nightmare come and gone without any trace of it left behind to guide me. I’m lying on a mattress on the floor of the second bedroom, the one that I used to share with Taryn when she visited the human world. Vivi sleeps down the hall with Heather, who is back by her side for reasons I don’t completely understand. Oak is old enough now he has his own room.

Taryn’s mattress is adjacent to mine, but empty, as it’s been for many weeks now. She took most of her things to her new bridal home when she married and I often find myself eyeing at the bare bed, wondering what I would say to her if she were here staring back at me. I grab her unused pillow, thinking of screaming into it, but instead toss it heatedly into the nearby closet.

_Traitor._

Even the spiteful voice in my head isn’t as furious as I’d like it to be. Mostly, it sounds exhausted and sad. I don’t want to be either, but as the seconds drag on and the weeks turn into months, I find myself losing more and more hope that I’m ever going to be anything but a pathetic creature who aimed for the sun and crashed back down to Earth with burned wings.

I let out a breath and stand up, forcing myself through my daily morning stretches before peeling off my damp t-shirt and tossing it haphazardly onto Taryn’s unused bed which I childishly decide to make my new laundry hamper. The stifling heat of summer is unusual for Maine this time of year, and without air conditioning the only way we’ve been staying cool is sleeping with the windows open. I walk over to it and push the glass apart wider, unabashedly naked and enjoying the slight breeze flowing in from the night. Vivi did a good job in bartering for this place. For the low cost of a bag of enchanted pine needles and basswood leaves, we scored a corner apartment at the edge of a large family-friendly complex, overlooking a vast clearing filled with dozens of wildflowers from our childhood: oxeye daisies, flowering dogwood, elderberry, primrose. They are beautiful even in the dimming moonlight, a sea of shades ranging from hunter green to the deepest violets. The trees are a wall in the distance, hiding a creek that Oak and his friends frequent whenever he can get away from homework and more importantly, me.

It’s a good place for him to grow up, and for that at least, I’m glad. I can tell that he misses Oriana, Taryn and even Madoc sometimes. He gets mad that we don’t let him use magic that often so he has taken to playing almost cruel “pranks” at home. Part of me is almost proud of this, disgustingly. I worry often about the fine line between giving him the innocence and goodness of the human childhood we never got and the necessary evils he has to experience to make him a fit ruler for a place like Elfhame.

If even gets that chance anymore. Not if the reverent High King has anything to say about it.

Not being a magic user myself, I wish Vivi would pay closer attention to his antics and curb them, but she delights in them, a big kid herself. I often feel like the cruel stepsister, calling him indoors to do homework or review fighting stances while the two of them play in the sunshine, without a care in the world.

I sigh audibly, pulling a fresh set of athletic clothes on and head downstairs, thinking of heating up a toaster strudel while simultaneously missing the unprocessed foodstuffs of my upbringing when I spy Heather at the kitchen table, illuminated only by the weak dome light on the ceiling. Every time I see her, I can’t help but marvel at the type of person who gets dragged to a Faerie wedding, turned into a humanoid cat, has her memories stolen from her, then returned, does the smart thing and ditches the insanity only to forgive and embrace the woman who caused her so much misery and pain in the first place.

"_Have I told you how hideous you look tonight?"_ Cardan seduces into my ear

Not that I’m much different. I unconsciously swat behind me, unnerved at the feeling he’s breathing down my neck.

Heather is still dressed in pajamas and a pair of fluffy unicorn slippers, her silk white bathrobe remarkably untarnished against the splattering of watercolors decorating her fingertips and the newsprint on the table. Her brush hovers over a once pristine white page now half depicting a mermaid with lovely flowing turquoise locks, wearing a coy smile and an almost snake like tail masterfully drawn with multihued scales in varying shades of royal blue, surrounded by starfish and varying lengths of kelp. Her top half, nude, is partially covered by her tresses and a heavy array of blue stones. It’s cartoonish but femininely pretty. I can’t help but shudder at the image, a familiar wave of nausea running over me as my mouth burns with the faded tang of saltwater.

“What do you think?” She says, unfazed at my being awake. This nightly liaison has become a ritual unto itself. I’m pretty sure she sleeps less than I do if that were possible.

I clear my throat, reminding myself I’m breathing on dry land.

“It’s great, as usual.” I reply honestly and she grins, reaching over to dunk her brush into a jar of muddied water before picking up another color and resuming. She’s been preparing for her first major exhibition at a gallery down in Boston I’m fairly confident is owned by an elf or maybe a vampire. They tend towards the elegant and hyper-exclusive circles that rich mortals orbit for hunting grounds, appreciative of the class and art as well as the…taste of the artist. I don’t tell Heather this of course, not wanting to worry her with a possibility but make a note to at least tell her not to dance with anyone at any after parties, and wear and an elf cross.

I find myself the last of the toaster strudels hiding in the back of the freezer and toss it into the oven, helping myself to the carafe of coffee that always seems to be on and half full, always being drunk and replenished. I drink it plain and eat the strudel without the frosting, leaving the packet for Oak who will undoubtedly decide to decorate his toast with it in a few hours or Vivi who will pour hers into her own coffee with an unhealthy amount of creamer. I worried about cavities for the first few days here witnessing their human diet but remembered that as such with many mortal ailments, they’re not plagued by dental caries. Vivi still makes Oak brush his teeth before school and bed, which I find endearingly unnecessary, but she saw it on a commercial and thought it would make her a better “parent”. Oak thinks it’s funny; he used to try to eat the toothpaste I was told but learned quickly it made his stomach hurt.

I’m contemplating heading into the city with Heather’s car to drive Uber for a few hours, my newly minted driver’s license burning a hole in my pocket or trying to get into contact with one of Vivi’s old friends, a sprite and bartender by the name of Esmeth. She happens to be a lower member of the Court of Termites who enjoys mixing tiny amounts of faerie fruit into her drinks, making her quite popular among the locals, supernatural and mortal alike. I went covertly into the bar the day I received fake proof of my human identity, hiding at the smallest table in the darkest corner, ignoring the men who tried to hit on me, slightly drunk and tried to determine if I liked her glamour or her natural form better. I watched as she even managed to put a glamour over the everapple she chopped up, a pretty strong bit of magic, and mixed it up with unusual liquors like absinthe, suddenly understanding her nickname as “the green fairy”.

Heather breaks me out of my reverie, scooping her brushes and carrying them into the sink while I automatically side step out of her way.

“Do you feel safe here?” She asks randomly, her back turned so I can’t read her expression. She doesn’t wait for my reply but continues on. “I love her but Viv pisses me off so much every time she says that. ’The human world is the best place for us. We’re safe here, nothing is going to do that to you again here, it won’t happen’. Like there isn’t gun violence every day, like I couldn’t get into a car accident or get robbed or die of cancer. Like a faerie couldn’t find me here just as easily as…just as easily as she did.”

They fought again last night. She’s been painting mermaids but they may as well have been demons.

“This place is definitely safer,” I reply carefully, the way my sister would want me to. I think of drowning in the undersea, of almost dancing myself to death, of having my fingertip bitten off and eating dirt and worms, glamoured to think it was a delicacy. If it were based on my words alone, I would tell Heather she should never have trusted Vivi or this family, that if she ever wanted to have a normal life again she should pack her things and get the hell away from all of us. But Heather and I are a little too much alike. I’m too invested in ruining the lives of every one of the Folk, to prove them all inferior to me and we’re both stupidly attracted to people we’re afraid of, like moths to the flame. We both know we shouldn’t, but do anyway. “But I don’t really feel safe anywhere, and that’s just me,” I finally continue, resigned, pulling my fingers unconsciously through the heaping disaster that’s become my hair. “That’s my neurosis, the curse of the life that I’ve chosen to live and that’s been chosen for me. Vivi has a lot more and a lot better memories of this place than me or Taryn ever did. This is her true home. For better or for worse, Elfhame will always be my home. It’s not the home I was supposed to have, I know that, but it’s the home I was given and I won’t ever let it be taken from me.”

Heather just nodded quietly, gazing out the small window that also faced the open field behind the complex idly drying the brushes with a dishtowel.

“That’s weird,” She said suddenly, peering off into the distance. “I never noticed that there was a rosebush out there before. It’s huge.”

I felt my heart drop into my gut as I retreated back into my room, mumbling something about work as an excuse, pushing aside the white curtains flowing gently in the early air to stand in front of the open window.

I scan the slowly brightening horizon fearfully. Just as she said, where there hadn’t been one before, stood a flowering rosebush with petals a more pure alabaster than the first snow and almost iridescent with morning dew. Their stems appeared to be black, covered in thorns sparkling alluringly in the rising sun. There’s a harsh wind and some of the petals drift lazily onto the ground, blowing nonchalantly with the breeze. It’s too beautiful, too out of sync with the rest of the landscape. And it’s just outside my bedroom within perfect viewing of the interior. I don’t know if what I think is possible, but I slam my window shut and pull the curtains closed anyway, reaching for the ankle knives hiding in my underwear drawer before strapping them to my leg.

_When his blood falls, things grow._

* * *

_ Do you not remember Jeanie,_   
_How she met them in the moonlight,_   
_ Took their gifts both choice and many, _   
_Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Pluck’d from bowers _   
_Where summer ripens at all hours?_   
_ But ever in the noonlight _   
_She pined and pined away; _   
_Sought them by night and day, _   
_Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey._   
_ \- The Goblin Market_


	3. Mother

_My body is changing and I don’t know how to stop it. _

_The sun is setting as I open my eyes and look around the room that is familiar and strange to me. There is a wind chime dancing near an open window throwing shards of rainbow light across the ceiling and books bound in leather with golden spines displaying titles I’ve never read. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and find myself drawn to the sunset against my will, a moth to the flame. _

_The sky is an ombre of jeweled tones, starting with the soft pink that is my favourite hue. It’s the color of princess stories, of purity, of romance, femininity, clotted cream and jam. The stars are beginning to shine high up above and I half-heartedly try to read their nightly forecast, giving up when a rumbling in my stomach calls for attention. _

_The air is warm and heady, so I glide over to the wardrobe and reach inside for an airy dress, midnight blue with golden stars stitched onto the top of the corset and golden leaves falling delicately around the hemline. My maid, a sylph with nearly translucent skin, is silent behind me as she tries to lace up the corset, but tuts when it’s obvious that the laces are going to need to be let out._

_“My lady, you’re going to need to have new gowns made already at this rate!” She chirps in a voice that may as well came from the throat of a chickadee. _

_My fingers grip the sturdy wood of my bedpost, and I bite my lip to hide the smile that displays an eagerness I don’t actually feel. _

_Finally dressed, the sylph holds out a tray with assorted jewels in different shapes and shades of luxury but I reach for the same earrings I always wear, the star and moon wrought in gold that makes my skin glow and cheeks flush, and loop them into my earlobes._

_Satisfied, I walk over to the mirror in the corner of the room for a quick inspection. I am no faerie, but I feel more powerful and more beautiful than I have ever felt before, my eyes sparkling, a hand resting on the small bump I am carrying high. _

_But the eyes in the glass don’t mirror mine. The eyes looks horrified, surprised, vengeful even. They frighten me in their intensity but I find myself making the same face. I take a step back away from that person and try to look away, but can’t._

_I want to yell and so I do, but my lips don’t move. _   
_I want to run and so I do, but my legs are frozen. _

_“Jude,” My mouth says. And the glass shatters into particles, taking the image with it._

* * *

The digital clock says 3 am again. I blink my eyes against the harsh beam of moonlight shining into my face. I am annoyed though I shouldn’t be; This is the seventh night of dreams I am ignorant of, and I could set an alarm by the predictability of my nocturnal wakenings. Frustrated anyway, I rip the clock away from the wall and toss it into the closet with the growing bits of paraphernalia that’s wrought my ire night after night. I mutter a few newly acquired obscenities under my breath while grumpily committing to stretching, dressing and making a half-hearted notion of beauty and personal hygiene before heading downstairs. 

I am the only one awake tonight which is just as well, because I don’t plan on staying long and don’t feel like explaining away my early morning adventures. Not that Vivi or Heather have bothered asking anymore, after countless other partial and non-answer replies. I have a job, I work off hours. I just need to get some air. I can’t sleep. All technically true, if lacking in conviction.

Nightfell is unfortunately too conspicuous a weapon even for the mystery and danger of the human world’s underbelly, so I substitute it with a trio of small, yet effective daggers into various pockets and hiding places along with a small vial of poison I never go without anymore. I studying the tiny jar a moment before pocketing it. Part of me wants to resume my practice of mithridatism. I want to be able to feel that sense of control, the safety that comes with the temporary weakness. But I don’t have an easily accessible supply of the ingredients so I keep a small vial on me at all times, secreted away. 

I won’t ever be held against my will again. Now, I’ll always have an emergency exit.

I make a step towards Heather’s car, but my feet carry me behind the apartment complex instead, back to the rosebush outside of my room. The first days after it’s sudden appearance it bloomed the sweetest smelling flowers that reminded me painfully of the palace gardens and the throne room. Oak picked several and now keeps them at his bedside, convinced they will never die because he feeds them water mixed with a little of his blood. Bees drunk of its pollen and haphazardly lounged on its petals, butterflies of every conceivable species flocked around it, and the local botanists were quite enthralled with the way that the blooms formed seemed like small crowns. But just as quickly as it came, the roses were dying, no doubt cut off from the magic that sprouted it in the first place. 

Surprisingly, Oak’s roses still live. Maybe there’s something to the blood after all.

Despite that, there are only a few left now. The dead are a blanket of white snow decaying rapidly on the grass underfoot. 

This event isn’t exactly unheard of in the human world, from what my research has gathered. In the months since my exile, I’ve taken it upon myself to find out as much as I could about Elfhame and the land of Faerie from the perspective of the mortals who could tell stories about it, and in my learnings I’ve discovered that magic, while very rarely occurring, does spontaneously find its way into the earth from time to time. There’s a group of mortals that study and worship this natural magic and try to harness it for their own purposes. 

_If only it were that easy._

I find myself standing near what is left of the mythic plant, starting down into one of the last roses hanging on for dear life. I don’t want to believe in my head what my heart is thinking, but it seems a little too convenient for a magical rose garden to start growing near me if it isn’t his doing. 

“You were here,” I accuse one of the remaining roses, who doesn’t respond. “You were here in the human realm. You were here, and somehow even though you weren’t in Elfhame, even though you were away from the land, you still are just as powerful…” 

I can’t help the heat rising to my cheeks at the thought of him watching me. I think back to the last time flowers birthed around him spontaneously. The night of our wedding, the night before I was banished. 

_“Kiss me again, Jude.” He had murmured into my neck, arms wrapped around my waist and drawing me closer on the bed. “I want to taste the poison on your lips. Maybe if I do it enough, I’ll build up a tolerance.”_

_I had managed a small smile, snuggling in, obliging him. “But you would need to keep drinking the poison, lest you feel the withdrawal from its effects.”_

_“Ah, you are right.” His fingertips burned me where he traced a line on my cheekbone. “The more you taste, the more reliant you become.” _

_He weaves his fingers into my hair and I press closer, acutely aware of how much my body is touching him and desperate to get even closer. I could drink of him for hours and still be thirsty. Rudely, he breaks our embrace to hold my gaze to his. His hand has traveled down to my neck and gently encircled it, squeezing lightly. I feel myself getting a little dizzy, but don’t protest._

_“I’m so happy to die by your venom,” He whispers against me. _

I feel tears welling in the corner of my eyes and blink their memory away before unsheathing one of my knives. Systemically, I cut each of the remaining roses from their stems, tossing them onto the ground, until only one remained. I reached out and stroked its petals only to have its color change from white to the deepest shade of onyx before crumble to dust.

_Good little murderer. _

* * *

It’s still dark when I pull into one of the only open parking spots in front of The Sundown Pub and Tavern, the oddly ubiquitous name for all night faerie-managed bar. I was pretty sure it was a Tuesday, but that meant nothing to the patrons, who parked themselves on stools until the sky turned light purple and disappeared until the sun became the moon once more. 

From the outside, it looked to be your typical dive bar as I’ve come to know them. Neon blazing beer names glaring from the windows, dark stained wood that creaked at random, a thin layer of grease and unknown substances on every surface and the ever lingering cigarette smoke smell tangled with stale beer. Inside, it looks to be just as you’d expect, down to the video poker machine chiming irritatingly in the corner and the old school jukebox softly playing country music to inattentive ears. There were a few humans perched here and there, bleary-eyed from drink or glamour, sipping quietly away at their loneliness in silent conversation.

I flash a look at the bartender, a human “in the know” who nods at me as I retreat behind a door to the back of the building, magicked to resemble a storage area to those without faerie sight. I see past the illusion to a wide open area that’s less small-town dive bar and more metropolitan speakeasy; A lot of dim lighting, dark velvets, faux candles and private corners for talking and other less scrupulous endeavors. As dead and as somber as it was in the front, the opposite could be said of the back, which was nearly packed full with immortals in various states of dress and drunkness, laughing and singing bawdily, some with familiar gold paint on their lips and eyes. 

I bite my lip hard to keep from thinking of Cardan and push my way through the crowd, keeping my head down in case someone decides to recognize me as human or worse, as a former member of the High Court. Luckily for me, most of the patrons are too engrossed in their own debauchery to be particularly astute and I’m able to wade through to my destination wholly unscathed except for some carelessly spilled liquor on one of my shoes. 

There is a large table in the furthest corner from the door surrounded by crushed red velveen drapes that I push aside to reveal a devastatingly beautiful vila sitting alone, writing in an old fashioned ledger complete with a quill pen. She holds in her opposite hand a black cigarette smelling of cloves and cinnamon, sitting between two long fingers accented by deadly crimson-painted talons easily four inches long. Her hair is the darkest midnight blue, curled softly and hanging in a waterfall that splashes down her legs, past the table and into a tidy pile on the disgusting bar floor. When she looks up at me, I am taken aback at the flint color of her gaze, again reminded of Cardan and again irritated at myself for being distracted with thoughts of him. She places the pen in a small gold pot and leans back into the faux leather booth she’s seated in, comically orange and dingy in a stark contrast to her elegance. 

“Jude Duarte,” The being called Esmeth purrs before a long drag from her cigarette. “You took longer to seek me out than I thought you would.” 

I keep my face neutral, hiding my surprise at her intimate tone. 

“So you know who I am.” She only smiles, resembling a pleased cat. I stuff my hands nonchalantly into my jacket pockets. “Then I’ll spare you the pleasantries, shall I?” 

At that she chuckles, a throaty sound laced with entendre. “If you’d like. What is it I can do for you, former queen of puppets? Have you grown tired of shadows and sulking? Are you hoping to enact revenge on the High King? Or are you here to beg of me my potions to reset your memories, make you forget all about us Folk so you can rejoin the mortals in defeat? For surely there can be no in-between for you.”

_As observant as her rumours claim her to be,_ I think grimly. Esmeth was legendary in the Court of Termites for her physics and deep knowledge of blood magic. I had heard tales growing up from other children that she was a hag with ability to transmogrify her own form into a dragon, a witch or a beauty depending on what served her fancy, and that she was one of the Old Ones, perhaps even as old as Mab herself. Stories told she may have even been one of Mab’s consorts, and that she had retreated to the mortal realm centuries ago after her death only to fall in love with some famous mortal play writer whose name I forget. She decided to exile herself from Faerie for reasons not many can discern, but she is easily enough found if one has a nose for intrigue and a eye for misdirection. 

“I’m here for information,” I reply after a beat, hoping that I myself am enough payment for whatever price she names. “As you undoubtedly must be aware, I am the former seneschal of the High King of Elfhame, and have been wrongfully barred from my home. I am trying to go back but I am not an expert on matters of the crown and blood magic. But I hear you are.” 

Esmeth ignores me for a moment to pen a few more words in the tome in front of her before closing it with a loud thud. From seemingly nowhere, a man emerges from the darkness, dressed in black trousers, a shirt and tie, mouth stuffed by a bizarre gag with a rubber-looking ball that prevents him from speaking. He bows deeply to her before picking up the book, inkpot and quill and whisking them away in noiseless grace, disappearing once more. 

“My dear,” She says finally, blowing out a cloud of perfumed smoke from her dark-painted mouth. “I am not stingy with my gifts to humans, but surely you have not come here to bargain with only empty hands and hollow promises?” 

I had anticipated this, and while I was relieved that she at least was receptive to bargaining at all with me, I worried that my service to her wouldn’t be enough payment for the information I was seeking. I kept my expression as level as possible and moved my hands to my sides, palms open in a form of obeisance. I grit my teeth so hard so I feared they may crack from the pressure, somewhat humiliated that I’ve regressed back to my beginnings, resorting to pathetic groveling, bereft of any power.

“I have a secret few know, that could potentially put my life in danger. I am willing to share it with you along with my obedience in exchange for what information you are able to provide me.” 

The last of her clove cigarette burns away and the mortal from earlier emerges once more from the shadows, a hand outstretched expectantly. I noticed with grim fascination that the palm of his hand is scarred and pale and it only takes a second to figure out why, as Esmeth reaches out to extinguish the remaining flame onto him, tapping and grinding the butt to ash. He bows to her a second time as if in thanks, closes his fist and reaches out his other untainted hand to help her to her feet, which she takes. 

She steps carefully around the table, avoiding trapsing on her long hair with a deftness born from years of practice, unbelievably high heels clicking with her footfalls. 

“Keep your secret, child. I will take my payment in a simple enough currency. Two things. First, since you are so willing to serve me: A favor.” 

I frown, resisting the urge to groan. That’s the last thing I need, owing a favor to a faerie like her. The last bargain I had gotten into made me into an assassin and got me banished by my husband. 

“What’s the second?” I ask, dreading the answer. 

She threw her hands up in an elegant shrug, flipping a locket of tainted sapphire behind her shoulder in one smooth motion of nonchalance. “Just a drop of your blood.” 

Against my will, my eyes widened and I found myself taking an involuntary step backwards. I wasn’t an expert by any means, but I couldn’t imagine how giving a reputed witch with undisclosed and presumably ancient magickal abilities my blood could possibly end in any beneficial way for me. 

“What do you want it for?” She folded her arms under a heavy set of breasts. 

“Nothing sinister, I promise.” She can’t lie, but for some reason I don’t believe her anyway. I sigh.

“Fine. What’s the favor?” To that, Esmeth snaps her fingers. A different servant, a female this time but similarly attired and gagged was the one to emerge, holding out what looked to be a flyer for an upcoming museum exhibition. It was hard to discern in the half light, so I squinted in order to read the some of lettering.

_WEAPONS, TALESMANS AND ARTIFACTS_   
_Craftsmanship from world renowned smiths, metallurgists, jewelers and more_

Memories of the only field trip Taryn and I had gone on while in elementary school tugged at me. Our father, Justin had volunteered as a parent chaperone to a large museum down in the city where a large exhibit of medieval weaponry had been acquired for display. It’s one of the few memories I have left of him that aren’t tainted by his shouts or stained by his spilled gore. 

I took the paper and noted the museum was the same one from that trip all those years ago.

“Does this have something to do with my father?” I tried—and failed—to hide the curiosity from my voice. Esmeth had been watching me quietly, idly stroking the arm of the servant next to her, who remained unflinchingly statuesque at her ministrations. 

“As you well know, your father was an extremely gifted craftsman, and a bit of a historian. He traveled the realms in search of intricate and lost techniques of weapons forging, done in the old ways. The swords he crafted were remarkably done for a young human, and he was set to overtake even the best of the Folk someday before he met his untimely end beside your poor mother.” To my surprise, Esmeth bent down to pull at the hem of her skirt, lifting it up to reveal a large athame strapped to a milky thigh by a leather holster. The hilt was shined to gleaming and practically glowed even in the minuscule amount of light cast by the table’s candle. She withdrew it carefully and handed it to me, handle first for inspection. 

I felt a strange blanket of warmth caress my skin when my fingers clasped the hilt. It reminded me of Nightfell, yet the dagger had its distinct own personality. The blade was etched with geometric patterns and had a peculiar shift to the metal, seeming to change from gold to silver to iridescent and then back again in the flickering light. I tested its balance and was unsurprised that it was perfect. 

“My father made this?” I whispered, resisting the urge to run away with it. Reluctantly, I returned it to her waiting grasp. She returned the athame to its hiding place with a succinct nod. 

“Of that he did,” She affirmed. “An unnamed piece at the time, as he was still an apprentice under Grimsen’s supervision. He was just beginning to learn how to weave magic into metal. This piece is not even close to being his greatest, but it is of sentimental value, as it was forged for a loved one who has since departed to the Ever Realm.” 

It’s easy for me to forget that my father was Grimsen’s apprentice at one point, but I suddenly recalled that he had been offered a hundred years of knowledge in a day if he would only part with something he didn’t want to lose. I had wondered one time if he had took that bargain, and it was becoming clear that he did. 

I wonder if the lives of him and my mother were the things he lost. I rearrange my expression back into neutrality, ignoring the urge to press on the topic of my parents. 

“Let me guess,” I start. “My father has items in this museum? And you…?” 

Esmeth flashed a winning grin. “Let’s just say there is a valuable item that might be of particular interest and I would greatly appreciate your aid in retrieving it. An item that was in your father’s possession when he died, and holds an usual power. I would like it in my possession instead.” 

At that I snorted, rolling my eyes. “You’re a Faerie. No doubt you employ dozens of creatures more talented than I am, who could easily break into a museum for you. Why me?” 

“Ah, dear Jude,” She sighed. “As you have said, I employ dozens of creatures more talented than you, but none of them are you,” She finished cryptically, as if that even remotely explained anything. It was my turn to sigh. 

“Okay,” I relented. “Whatever it is, I’ll get it for you.” 

She clapped her hands together and I swore for a moment that a burst of glitter erupted from her fingertips. She turned to the woman behind her and made a gesture I couldn’t see but apparently she could, because she took one of Esmeth’s hands, gave a deep bow, pressed her gagged lips to it and dismissed herself into the crowd behind the curtain. 

Esmeth closed the gap between us and I became acutely aware that she smelled of spiced ever apple and probably tasted even better. I longed to reach out and stroke her cheek and test if her skin was as soft as I imagined it to be. 

I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought. What was wrong with me? 

“In return for your effort, I shall give you one piece of information, and because I like you, a riddle.” She ran a finger down my cheek and I shuddered with desire. 

“There is to be a ball in three days time. You remember what day it is in Elfhame?” 

I nodded. In three days time was the first full moon of the harvest season. Unlike mortal women who could get pregnant at anytime, supposedly Faerie fertility peaked during the time corn ripened and the air cooled. There was a ceremony dating back from the days of Mab that took place every year, or at least that’s what I came to understand; We were allowed many things in Madoc’s household, but attendance to the Gathering as it was known was not one of them. What I knew for sure was that it honored the children that were recently born or soon to be. What I heard was that it was something of a faerie orgy, encouraged to get as many of them pregnant as possible, with many of the Folk vying to bed the High King in particular. There was a nasty rumor had it that Cardan himself was conceived during this event, spread to try and throw question into his parentage. 

I try not to picture him reclined back in the dark room behind the throne, surrounded by humans and faeries alike, fucking anything that offered itself to him. I try not to imagine me being one of them. 

Esmeth continued. “You’ll be interested to know that this past year has been poor for Fae children. There were no Folk conceived the year. Even the mortal surrogates remain with barren wombs. All that is except one who is to be honored and will bear her fruit with frost fall.” I feel a disturbing tingling sensation in the back of my head, reminiscent of deja vu coupled with a sense of dread I couldn’t explain, like I’d forgotten something gravely important. 

“Your sister, Taryn.” I winced, no time to feel shock as pain blossoms from my fingertip, which is now sprouting a small bead of crimson. Esmeth lifts my hand to her mouth and sucks the blood off it in a way that makes me blush from head to toe. 

“And as for your secrets, dear Queen,” She finishes, “I don’t need your words to know them."

* * *

_Come away, O human child!_   
_To the waters and the wild_   
_With a faery, hand in hand,_   
_For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand._   
_\- The Stolen Child_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who've commented and kudos..ed, your words are so appreciated! I started writing this about two weeks ago, and just finished QoN. To those who've read it, you may have noticed that Holly and I were on a similar train of thought about something. Sorry! Just happened to be logical, glad she thought so too! 
> 
> I won't spoil but had mixed feelings about the book. But, I love the characters and will continue to write cause I think there's some interesting stories still to tell with them!


	4. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kudos and comments! Sorry it took me waaaay longer than I meant to continue this; Life (and pandemics) happen! I'm already well underway with the next parts so stay tuned for more consistent updates. Thanks again for your support!
> 
> EDIT 5/29/20: If anyone is looking for a beta-reader and wouldn't mind also reviewing and editing my work, send me a message and let me know! I just caught so many random grammatical errors, ugh! Thanks again!

* * *

I spent an ironically dull night lounged front of the television, a comedic foil to my afternoon tainted with cigarette smoke and intrigue. Dancing With the Stars is on and I am watching impassively on the opposite end of the couch from a snuggling Heather and Vivi, the latter idly twisting long strands of hair around her finger. Unknowingly, she kept turning the strands of hair brunette and orange before back to their normal straw-hued, a talent that Heather said would “save her a lot of money at the salon”, which I didn’t understand but laughed at anyway alongside them.

Oak lounged supine on the living room floor, happily distracted by a new Lego kit Vivi had gifted him, sprawled in a mess of sharp plastic shapes with a plate of pizza rolls balanced on his lap. The couples onscreen, obscenely garnished in tight bodysuits festooned with sparkling crystals were on full display, twisting, sweating and gyrating ridiculously to the music. I had quit observing as closely when it became obvious it wasn’t even really a competition, all things being fair; one of the contestants was so obviously a faerie, and it was Vivi’s private joy not telling Heather to see if she would be able to guess by the end of the show.

I yawned rudely at the next act, glancing down at my legs, stretched in front of me clad in grey sweatpants. Quite the dichotomy from the glamour of the competition and even my old warrior- utilitarian outfits. The more the program went on, the more I am reminded uncomfortably of revels from days past in Elfhame, so much so that I heaved myself to my feet and trudged into my room without regard as to who was going to be voted off this week. I felt the gazes of Vivi and Heather trailing me as I retreated into my room but mercifully, they spared me any protests. I’m pretty sure I’ve been depressing to hang out with lately anyway, so they let me go without argument.

An hour later, much to my surprise Oak appears at my bedroom door, having abandoned his toys and garbed for bed in fire truck pajamas, clutching a book with a hopeful expression. He could easily be mistaken for a girl these days, with beautiful golden ringlets sitting just above his shoulders, fingers and toes painted the spectrum of a rainbow with a different hue on each nail. The horns peeking through his mop were over three inches long now and often make it difficult for him to get dressed every day. Mortal clothes were less forgiving than the fabrics of Elfhame and many of my working funds were going towards replacing torn sweaters and shirts.

I open the door wider for him in invitation. This was a semi-regular occurrence at night for him to request bedtime stories, but it usually was Heather who humored him and never me. I hated that it made me feel suspicious more than pleased.

“Do you want to read with me?” I ask him, injecting elation into my expression in an attempt to smooth away any indication of my inner misgivings. He nods eagerly and pulls me towards his room. Away from Oriana’s tender yet incessant babying, Oak was shedding the vestiges of his childhood in a dramatic fashion. Some days, despite the horns and hooves and ever-present armor of glamour, I think he might be even more human than I am. He’s so alike Vivi in this regard, I noticed; they were born of a world of sorcery, of shocking and gruesome allure, where there is little pain and always pleasure to be had and despite this, they find themselves enthralled with the grungy, despairing, yet persevering world of mortality.

I remember a movie I’d seen once upon a time, about a mermaid who wanted to be a human so bad she sold her voice to a sea witch to win the love of a prince. She cast aside her magic and though she almost lost him, in the end love had prevailed and she sacrificed her fish tail, kingdom and immortality to live on land with the prince.

Vivi had cast off the security of being a general’s daughter to live and love in the human world just like that mermaid, but unlike that mermaid, she kept her magic as used it happily.

Oak on the other hand seemed to start to abhor its use except for the glamour which was required for him to go to school. I often worry that when the time comes, there won’t be a successor to Cardan because he’ll have traded in his hooves for toes permanently.

I smile every time I cross the threshold of his bedroom. He is a little boy, faerie or not, and the walls are adorned with pictures he’s made in class, some with large toads the size of horses, and flowers the iridescent color of rainbows. He crawls under his bedspread, festooned with unicorns (which he picked because it was “happy”) and I wait patiently for him to find a comfortable position while I investigate the cover of the book he chose, suddenly fighting the urge to stop my skin from crawling. It’s an older edition judging by its binding, depicting a blonde-haired girl in a powder blue dress, standing atop a black hill, surrounded by vines, briar roses and intricately drawn playing cards. Curiously, a white rabbit blowing a large horn sits at the bottom of the hill, wearing a checkered vest and monocle.

“Why Alice in Wonderland?” I ask casually, flipping past the front matter and into the illustrated text preceding _Chapter One: Down the Rabbit Hole._ I pondered why my luck would have it that Oak chose a book with such a strong connection to his estranged uncle. Despite a thorough search, didn’t find any hidden notes or messages bearing my name or anyone else’s within its pages.

He shrugged noncommittally. “I was thinking of books I might want to read and it appeared on my bookshelf this morning,” He replied obviously, as if this was as normal a thing as the sky being blue.

I opened my mouth to tell him that a book magically appearing on his bookshelf wasn’t a regular occurrence in the human world (and I wasn’t even sure how normal it was in the faerie realm) but stopped myself. Maybe I wasn't ready to know where it came from, though I had my suspicions. Instead, I put my misgivings to the side as tomorrow's problem and curled up next to Oak on the bed, intoning my way through the first several pages of _Alice’s Adventures_, doing a terrible impression of what I thought the different characters might sound like which at least seemed to please my brother. I thought briefly about Taryn and our mother and as I continued to read, Cardan despite my best intentions. What was it about this book that interested him so? What was it that made him write my name dozens of times like a dark curse?

It was an absurd story about a girl slacking off from her school lessons to chase a white rabbit into a magical world, where the first thing she does is spot food and drink that she consumes without a thought.

“That’s stupid,” exclaims Oak suddenly, mirroring my own thoughts as we delved deeper into the book. “Why would she just eat something in a strange place without knowing what it could do to her? Humans can’t eat faerie food, what if it had made her sleep forever?” I tucked a few stray curls behind his ear while I thought of a reply.

“Because she didn’t see any way else forward,” I replied carefully, sensing the gentle pull of deja vu in my words. “Sometimes...you have to do things that don’t make a lot of sense at the time in order to make a new path in front of you.”

I found my spot back on the page and was about to resume the tale when Oak spoke up again, soberly this time.

“Is that why father killed Prince Dain and his family? Because he was trying to make a new path?”

I closed the book while inhaling a contemplative breath. I see from the corner of my eye that he’s looking at me expectantly, like this is a question he’s been holding onto for awhile but finally found the right time to ask.

Vivi and I had often puzzled over when this day was going to come. Ever since that evening of the coronation, though Oak was only a child, he sensed something terrible had happened in that room even if he hadn’t been directly witnessed to it. We weren’t sure how much to tell him, if anything at all. The coronation happened so quickly afterwards, and then him fleeing to the human world, apart from his nurses, from Oriana and Madoc and from Taryn as well. I don’t know how exactly he knew that Madoc was responsible for Dain’s death, but wrong about everyone else.

Should he know that Dain was his real father? Could I ever be the one to tell him? Will he figure it out by himself one day? What about Liriope, his birth mother? So many questions with difficult answers. I might be good with battle, but as a born liar, the truth was one enemy I wasn’t sure how to grapple with.

“_In this world of magic and mystery, truth hides in plain sight while you, my dear, can speak from the shadows. Never doubt that your gift of the false tongue is as great a weapon as the sword at your hip.”_ Madoc had instructed me once.

_“I know humans can lie, but watching you do it is incredible. Do it again.”_ Cardan tells me, amazed.

_“You are hiding something from me_,” Taryn says, “_And while I know we can lie, I wish we wouldn’t do it with each other_.”

“Madoc,” I started, correcting myself for his benefit. “Father. He did what he thought was going to benefit everyone. He thought that he knew better who would be a good ruler for Elfhame, but he was wrong. One day, you’re going to be the High King, and you’ll be the best ruler that Elfhame has ever seen. You’ll be kind and caring and just.”

In response, Oak frowned and sank lower into his bedding with an obvious pout. “I don’t want to be king,” He huffed, putting words to my innermost fears. “I want to live in the human world with mommy and Vivi and Heather.” He rolled over, turning away from me. “King Cardan told me I don’t have to be king if I don’t want to, so I’m not gonna.”

I shoot up, _Alice in Wonderland_ tumbling gracelessly to the floor at my feet. The very mention of his name sends blood pounding in my ears and it takes all the strength I possess not to scream the next words out of my throat. A thousand things rush through my head with lightening speed; When did Cardan talk to him alone? Why would he tell him he doesn’t have to be king? Unless…

“Cardan told you that?” I stammer, barely managing to keep my volume neutral. “When did he say that?” Oak shrugged, his only answer.

My mind was spinning. Cardan has never been alone with Oak long enough to have any sort of private conversation with him, especially not about usurping the throne. I feel as though I’d stepped directly into a bath of ice, chilled from skin to bone.

“Oak…” I intoned with heavy warning. My hands frame the sides of his face, turning him gently toward me. “I need to know, it’s very important. When did Cardan say that to you? Was it recently? Was it last time you were at home in Elfhame?”

“I’m not telling you,”He roared petulantly, throwing himself out of bed and yanking me with him, causing me to stumble in surprise. “He just gave me the book and we talked, that’s all. Leave me alone, Jude, I don’t want to talk anymore!” Before I knew it, he had managed to whisk me out of the room, the door slamming shut behind me. I stood outside for a moment, my fingers curling and uncurling into fists, seething with rage.

He was coming into the human world. He was coming into the human world and worse, he was telling my brother that he didn’t have to resume his place as Elfhame’s natural heir. He was talking to Oak alone, putting ideas into his head. After having ripped me from my power and position, after having bequeathed me the highest title in the land and gas-lighting me into thinking it was all a fallacy.

I realize somewhere in the hasty departure I had kicked _Alice in Wonderland_ into the hallway with me and it sat sprawled and face down on the carpet at my feet. I bent down to retrieve it and before closing the cover noticed that in my search for a note, I had missed a passage that was underlined nondescriptly, in the book’s twelfth chapter.

_ “Begin at the beginning,” the King said, very gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop_.”

I rip the page out and crush it between my hands before tossing it into the nearest trash can.

* * *

_I feel as though I am standing on the precipice between one reality and another. I’m myself…and I am not. I am inside of and removed from my body. There are memories before me; they are crinkled photographs suspended in doorways, painted in monochrome. They are old and new but I have difficulty telling them apart, as the me I am today does not remember well the feeling of my arms around my mother’s neck, her breath warm against my cheek as she sings to me. I inhale the scent of lilacs and fabric softener. I forget the words that she’s singing to young Jude and Taryn, who’s eyelids are lazily blinking in a futile attempt against sleep. _

_“And anytime you feel the pain,” begins the cadence, “Hey Jude, refrain. Don’t carry the world upon your shoulder. For well you know it’s a fool who play’s it cool by making his world a little colder…”_

_ I sense myself frown just as young Jude smiles. I don’t know this child. I can’t comprehend the serenity enveloping this scene. It’s the ombre shades of sunset. It’s stuffed animals, serenity and happiness and it may as well have been someone else’s memory for all its sugar-spun architecture. _

_I turn around to walk away from it only to find myself tripping on a piece of metal, nearly falling into a large anvil that easily could have concussed me. I peer around, confused. This recollection is slightly more believable even though I don’t seem to have been in it. I recall the acrid, sulphuric smell that seemed to always linger in this workshop no matter what fuel my father used. At this moment, he is drenched in sweat from head to toe, fingernails dirty and hands calloused. He is concentrating on etching scroll work on a beautiful circlet that at first glance could have been made of gold, but if you gazed at it from your periphery, the colour shifted to a rosy copper with tinges of green and purple before transforming back again._

_ I haven’t seen his face in so long that it fascinates and saddens me. Taryn and I may be twins, but Taryn has somehow always favoured our mother, especially in temperament while I see my determination mirrored in the furrowed brow and heated focus of our father. His dark hair hung like a curtain framing dark eyes, muscles terse underneath his leather apron. I hear him murmuring under his breath, and my mind told me he sometimes spoke to us in a language that wasn’t English. However, time has stolen that tongue away from me. _

_I creep up to inspect his work closer, careful even though I sense he cannot see me. The circlet is written in faerie runes and cuneiform that I know from years of history classes, but couldn’t read or write it if asked, nor could most of the Folk. The language was old magick and while there weren’t many fields of academic study that were forbidden in the Realms, there were knowledges that would rather be forgotten._

_ I look up from my father’s work and see myself entering the room with Vivi chasing behind me. My father glances up with a grin that quickly turns to scolding as we near the furnace. I don’t want to leave but like ripples on water, the scene is changing again. I am back in Elfhame. I feel the magic in the air like static electricity brushing softly against my skin. I let the haze settle and am infuriated to recognize the tapestries and pattern of the stone of the room I am standing in. I feel a searing pain in my head and almost collapse when it subsides just as suddenly as it came on. _

_My vision appears clearer, somehow._

Of course I would somehow be in that bastard’s quarters. I recognize the bedsheets, mercifully lacking another person sandwiched between them. The bookshelves and furniture are all the same, as is the complete lack of any sense of organization. But there also new additions: the explosion of plant life growing on every wall, so much so that if I hadn’t known better I’d have thought I had stumbled into a greenhouse. There was dew clinging to the petals of the chrysanthemums sticking out from an urn on the table, ivy and willow dangling as curtains from the ceiling, a small silver-tinged pine tree crawling up from a pot in one of the corners, festooned with white Christmas lights and baubles resembling diamonds and rubies. One of the bedside table drawers was open, spilling fat basil leaves and catnip onto the carpets next to an orange tabby, curled up in blissful slumber.

My thoughts raced. I felt the need to hide which I was sure was ludicrous and probably related to my history of sneaking into his rooms. I scan the environment, eyes darting from surface to surface. I felt corporeal, vulnerable. I wanted a weapon, but knew that Cardan was not me, who had a least five instruments of death hidden in a ten foot radius around me at all times. I gaze around wildly at my options and spot a sharpened quill on his desk, next to some papers. It’s better than nothing and I make to grab it when I notice the words he had penned in neat, thoughtful script.

_Dear Jude… _One read, a line through it, replaced by _Jude_.

My heart stopped a moment. He was writing to me?

I heard noises from outside and resume my irrational search for a hiding spot, rolling my eyes at my own stupidity of it as I dive into a giant bush of roses growing next to the door in time to be shielded from the two who stumbled through it moments later. I’m fairly certain that I’m dreaming or maybe even hallucinating, but that doesn’t stop me from hitching my breath as none other than His Majesty, the Royal Backstabber himself stumbles into view with another of my least favourite people hanging precariously off his neck, both of them scantily dressed and emitting the potent scent of aged tobacco and elderflower mead.

It is impossible for Nicasia to be anything less than beautiful, but no small part of me was pleased to see that there did seem to be a way to dull her allure as well as, apparently, her senses; Her eyes were glazed over and tinged with the telltale green if. She released her drowning man’s grip on my husband and collapsed into an ungraceful heap on the low couches in the center of the room, giggling like a moron

Ironically Cardan, who knew less sober days in his life than not, seemed relatively the more cognizant of the two, though not by much. In the months since our last meeting, my eyes could barely fathom the subtle changes in not just his appearance but his air as well. His hair, always a dark waterfall now tumbled down well past his shoulders and curled gently at the ends was weaved with flowers of every size and shape that coordinated with a ruby circlet sitting atop his brow. The kohl he had painted his eyes and lips with was barely smeared. He was still garnished grandly - an all black and velvet ensemble that reminded me of the men on Vivi’s rock magazine covers (Heather called them “goths”) - but the fabric lacked its usual intricate patterns and dramatic flourishes. He wears his tail openly, which swishes side to side in a relaxed cadence. When Nicasia whispers something out of my earshot, it makes him laugh genuinely, with warm eyes and a soft smile.

I feel my stomach twist in sharp, painful jealously and just as quickly stuff that feeling to the darkest corner of my mind to be thoroughly ignored. I've found myself more times than not lately wishing there was a magical antidote to extract his poison from my heart.

“My king,” Nicasia purrs loud enough for me to hear now. “Surely you must have given some thought to my proposal? A true unification for both land and sea, a steadfast alliance to last generations and,” She emphasized, pressing fingertips and gliding them across her glistening collarbone, “All the benefits that come alongside it.”

Cardan lounged gracelessly, head lolled back in a flippant display of neck ruffles and nonchalance. He has one hand in a trouser pocket, the digits on the other extended towards the canopy overhead which I just noticed seemed to be swaying gently in an unseen breeze, making me uneasy. I knew his powers had grown exponentially, but he turned his entire bedroom into an arboretum and somehow manages to have magickal abilities outside of Elfhame. I cannot remember Eldred displaying anything quite like Cardan had but then again, we learned in our studies of alchemy and royal lineage that the potency of Mab’s line only increases as time goes on. I had heard talk from one of the maids that the blood of the High King could bestow an incredible gift or curse on anyone that ingested it. It was rumored that Eldred’s father had gifted a coveted drop to a mortal he had traveled upon with a unique silver tongue, and that human managed to elude death via stabbing, poisoning, and gunshot before eventually succumbed to drowning. If Eldred could bestow a mortal with invulnerability, what lurked in the veins of his supposedly weakest and woe begotten son?

He is steadfastly ignoring Nicasia’s unsubtle attempts at seduction, which has now escalated to her gown inching further and further up her thighs. Despite myself, I feel my face reddening in humiliation and jealousy. I try not to recall our own near-lovemaking session and unwittingly imagine the two of them entangled together, a masterpiece of eroticism in comparison to what could have only been a fumbling novice’s display of passionate ineptitude.

“I have given great thought to your proposal,” He finally says with slow deliberation. “However I think it would be better to continuing preparing to carry the weight of your mother’s crown rather than the drowning in the blood of mine.” Her dress stops its upwards ascent only momentarily, barely put out.

“I understand your concern my dearest,” She voices quietly, leaned forward only a breath away from his turned profile. “But I want to show you that you have nothing to fear from this union and we have so much to gain from it. We’ve known each other since we were sprites, when I used to take your hand in the wheat fields and run you away from everyone who caused you pain.” Her voice carries years of longing with it, but I sense something else as well.

“_We have so much to gain from it_.”

The lust for power.

In my mind, I have no doubt of Nicasia’s affections for Cardan but like nearly all Fae, they are laced with the desire for things they cannot possess; Locke loves my sister, but it is tainted with the need to test and toy with her affections for the theatrical need to make his life more interesting. Madoc may have loved my mother, but his need for control over and possessiveness was one of the factors that drove her and my father to each other and away from him. Cardan’s own mother Asha craved attention and glory in her bedding of Eldred, who in turn wanted another child but received one cursed by the stars.

Humans pen stories of romance and undying love but our world is never the subject of those tales. We are tricksters. We steal the children of mortals, lure sailors to their demise and kidnap artisans so we may benefit from their craft. The Fae love in a way that is self-servant first and foremost.

Cardan faces her at last, closing the minute distance between the two of them in a way that heightens my discomfit even further. They are a portrait of Raphaelian beauty, a delicious haze of onyx and sapphire hair twining together as Nicasia presses into him with an urgency I hate that I can empathize with. What an irony that I had once mocked her with my familiarity with Cardan’s lips and now I’m forced to watch them swap saliva against my will.

He is the first to break it off, expression keen.

“As to that,” He gestured at her, “_That_ will be the last time. I am touched by your loyalty, but I won’t tolerate your debauchery and manipulation of our childhood relationship in order to safeguard you a throne you weren’t meant to be seated upon”.

The foggy drink from her eyes seemed to clear almost immediately, as if the idea of never bedding him again was the bigger insult rather than the denial at becoming High Queen of Elfhame.

“Besides,” He continued. “I grow weary of always running away from pain. I cannot be an effective ruler with only cowardice as my companion.”

It took everything in me not to laugh at the sight of her expression, now sober from reprimand or rejection, features cast downward with stormy indignation.

“I don’t understand your meaning, Cardan”, She stammers, moving quickly to stand in front of him, back towards me. He raises his brow raised indifferently, his body giving off a grand display of insouciance.

“What’s there not to understand, Nicasia? I value you as a friend, as an advisor and an ambassador but I grow tired of your pursuits when I’ve made my mind perfectly clear on several occasions.”

She has the grace to look embarrassed but it’s fleeting and swiftly replaced by fury. “The ceremony is in three days, _Your Majesty_,” She replies with a hard edge adding a staccato to her final words. I watch in a mixture of fascination, disbelief and repulse as she gracefully stepped out of her dress, revealing planes of smooth mint-colored skin. Nicasia kneels in front of him with her palms open and facing him like she was some sort of ritual offering, and although I cannot see her face, her words are heavy with impending tears.

I almost feel sorry for her. I knew she was desperate for him, but it was another thing to see her plainly begging for his affection. It was unsightly, especially considering her high rank as the next ruler of the undersea. The irony of her looking down upon me for being a human while she whined for him like a dog was not lost on me.

“I have not been the best lover to you these past years, Cardan,” Nicasia begins. “But I know your heart better than most. I dried your tears as a child and shared honey cakes with you. I know I will never earn your forgiveness for Locke, but I hope you will consider me for the harvest moon. I know I could bear you a child, one of land and sea, who will help cement a lasting alliance between us.”

The silence in the room was palpable.

_That_ was what she was after? She wanted a child with him?

I watched on from a shrouded distance as emotions flickered tumultuously over Cardan’s expression as Nicasia remained steadfast. Finally, he sighed. “Get dressed, “ He said resolutely. “I don’t forget our friendship but I cannot plight my trough to you.”

He helped her to her feet and didn’t look away as she redressed herself, wetness sparkling at the corner of her eyes. My knees started to ache from remaining stagnant in my position for so long but I didn’t dare move as Nicasia turned and made a point to leave, only to whirl around to him again in a flash of seaglass and cerulean.

Her face took on the monstrous expression that exists between heartache and anger, emitting an aura that even the plants closest to her seemed to sense as they shrunk away in retreat from her.

“Just answer me why!” She screeches. “Why do you spurn not only me but the chance of a lifetime to rule two powerful kingdoms and secure your own bloodline? I was good enough for you once, and I have paid for my sins. But why do you not listen to reason now?”

I questioned what made Nicasia so sure she would even conceive on the harvest moon when she erupted again with an uproarious laugh in response to his silence, thrusting a finger in his direction with pointed accusation.

“I didn’t want to believe it was possible but you actually _love_ her, don’t you?” She spat incredulously. Cardan’s visage once stony flickered surreptitiously. His tail whipped and snapped between his legs as if trying to dispel a bothersome fly, and I felt my heart begin to pound explosively against my ribcage. Unleashed, Nicasia kept chortling mirthlessly, closing the gap between the two of them once more, as fighters on the brink of blows.

She leaned in, speaking at almost a whisper so that I had to strain to hear her next words. “That day, when you banished her, she called you out in front of the Court. She’d said she was was the Queen of Faerie. You actually made her Queen didn’t you?” She waited a beat for a reply, and when none came, she continued on with a chuckle. “Well Queen or no, she’s banished now isn’t she? And if she weren’t, she will never love you the way you seem to love her. Especially not after you betrayed her. I asked her myself, you know. When we held her captive. I asked her if you loved her, and you know what she said?”

The memories come flooding back to me, of brine and choking, false glamour, dehydration and weeks of sleeping on the tip of a dagger, waiting for it to pierce my heart.

“_He doesn’t love me_,” I had said. “_Nothing like it._”

“Nicasia—“ Cardan seethed, eyes turning to flint.

“She said, no. She was_ willed_, Cardan. She cared for you but knew that you didn’t love her. And then you made her Queen only to exile her. Do you think she loves you now? Do you think she’d rather watch you die on the edge of her sword than embrace you?”

I thought that I would be more sympathetic to her words but all I feel is cold as I watch his eyes burn out as quickly as they ignited. He tossed his head back and chuckled gruffly. I tried to stand but I felt my toes and fingertips beginning to numb, my vision beginning to blur as if I were beginning to lose consciousness. I fought with my want to prove Nicasia wrong with my desire to see Cardan punished and hid mired in indecision.

“I have known you to be jealous, Ophelia, but while once I may have found it amusing, I grow weary of being the subject of your malefice. I order you as your King and the bearer of your name to leave me now least you be tossed out against your will.”

I nearly fell over at the casual slip of what must have been Nicasia’s true name. I couldn’t believe she had given a piece of information with such power over to someone like Cardan but thanked my luck that now I was privy to a secret most Folk would murder without hesitation for, especially the true name of a royal.

Nicasia, holding no power to protest otherwise spun on her heel and stormed from the room in a moment, leaving the High King alone again. Or, so he thought.

I wrestled and strained to keep my body from falling into blackness even more now, grasping frantically at the wall behind me as if a rope to pull me back into reality. His back was turned to me, but I could hear Cardan murmur to himself, “Jude. You really think that, don’t you?”

_ I tried to dispel the urge to vomit, the sensation burning my throat as my head began to pound. My entire body felt as if it were exploding from the outside in, but somewhere I managed to find the strength to hoist myself into a standing position with tremendous effort. I took one step and couldn’t keep consciousness any longer.  
_

_"Cardan,” I whispered, and the last thing I saw was the surprise in his face as he turned to face me._

* * *

“Jude!”

If I had been in my bed in the palace, my sister likely would be dead. Vivi stood peering over me, golden cat-eyes wide with some amalgamation of fear and concern, hands resting firmly on my shoulders. I was used to sleeping with a small dagger under my pillow, paranoia my ever present bed companion but the weapon was sheathed and hiding in a nearby dresser drawer. I was both grateful and irritated at myself from becoming lax while in the mortal realm.

My hands trembled as I gently pushed her away, adjusting myself to a sitting position. I know knew the time based off moon glow and cursed audibly, slicking back my damp hair. I felt like I had run a marathon and judging by the sheen of sweat enveloping my entire body, I must have looked like it as well.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Vivi exclaimed, flipping on the lights. Her bronzed skin was stricken with pallor. I recoiled instinctively against the bright fluorescence, eyelids slamming shut in protest. “Jude, you scared the shit out of me! You were shaking and moaning like you had one of those seizure fits on the TV!”

I ignored her, trying desperately to recall the details of my dream. Like wisps of smoke they slipped through my fingers as quickly as I tried to hold onto them. I remember Nicasia and Cardan, because apparently I can’t go one day without him parading through my nightmares. I remember the scent of pine needles and earth, dim candles, humming and my father…

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I assured her once my breath allowed me to speak. I braced myself to lie as I always had, but realized I was tired, not just from the early morning awakenings but of magic and of falsehoods.

I was tired of being tired.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. I just…” Vivi sat on the bed next to me quietly. I am painfully reminded of a night only a few days after we had arrived into Elfhame, when she had heard me crying in my room, attempting to be stealthy so as not to upset her or Taryn. But whether it be related to faerie magic, her pointed fur-tipped ears or a sisterly preternatural ability, Vivi could hear anything she wanted to within a close distance, even if it was a sigh. And she had been listening that night too, catching me when I didn’t want to be found.

“I’ve been having nightmares for awhile now, and this one just must have been worse than the others. I didn’t mean to wake you, but I’m guessing you weren’t actually asleep since you seem to be the only one who heard me.”

I had guessed right and she didn’t bother hiding her guilt.

“You’ve always been pretty weird Jude, but it’s been more obvious the last few days. You look like a zombie. I could go grocery shopping with those bags under your eyes.” She grinned delightfully at her joke as I groaned, but the mirth faded quickly.

“Talk to me. What are these nightmares about?” I shrugged. “I don’t remember when I wake up… It’s like any dream when you only remember bits and pieces. I recall feelings and sometimes people that were in them, but only know that I feel like I haven’t slept barely at all when I awaken.”

I may be more forthcoming than usual, but I decide not to mention Cardan’s ever looming presence and my suspicions surrounding him and Oak for now. I barely even know what my own suspicions are, let alone a theory to speculate on yet, and Vivi’s vengeful nature isn’t something I have the energy to contend with at the moment.

“Maybe you’re just trying to process everything from the last couple of months?” She speculates hesitantly, sounding like she’s not sure what she is saying is the right thing. I love my sister fiercely, but while she is a halfling herself, there are certain nuances of human nature she has a difficult time understanding.

Not that I’m much better. I barely remember what it means to be human.

I just nod at her, rubbing my temples. My head throbs angrily beneath my fingertips. “Probably,” I agree. “Yeah, I’m sure it’s just stress.”


End file.
